Average Day
by cupidity11
Summary: 'An average day on 221B Baker Street started before the sun ever really rose. In fact if you wanted to get really technical day in the flat never really ended.'


An average day on 221B Baker Street started before the sun ever really rose. In fact if you wanted to get really technical day in the flat never really ended. John Watson crawled out of his rumpled bed, grumbling about the lack of sleep.

Or he could wake up with a start at the kitchen table, pieces of paper stuck to his face. Maybe he would feel sore because of the most recent chase. Any way it began he would always stretch, wincing when he heard the crack of his back (Really, he was getting too old for this) and stumble over to the tea pot to brew himself the morning drink.

With caution John Watson opened the fridge. If he was in a good mood, as was increasingly unlikely, he would chuckle or raise an eyebrow at the latest experiment. If he was not then the decapitated head, or leg, or arms would be barked at before the door was slammed.

When he had finished gulping down his tea, would then search for his partner. Rarely, Holmes would be in his room and if he was then Watson was not going in. He'd so far been able to avoid doing so.

No doubt it was a mess. A disaster fit for a hurricane, if the tale tells scorch marks on the door, riddled with bullet holes was any proof. However, it was more likely that the Consulting Detective would be up and about; pacing in the living room, mentally going over the crime scene in his head, connecting clues and waiting for inspiration to strike.

Or maybe he was sulking on the couch, letting the blood rush to his head. Pale, bony hands would be steepled, nicotine patches placed half hazardly on the arms covered by the blue robe he wore when he was bored.

John much preferred the pacing Sherlock to the one acting like a child on the much too small couch. Because that one, while not exactly polite, was much more agreeable.

The doctor would be able to tell how the day would go when he stepped into the living room. If there was the sharp, bitter smell of gunfire or the plucking of violin strings it would be rather miserable, filled with whining, moaning and just plain bitching on the brilliant detective's behalf.

Watson would then prepare himself with some more tea, spiked with brandy and settle down to blog. However, if a call came in, or if Sherlock had a brilliant deduction they would be running around. Or at least the sleuth would be.

He would be bouncing on furniture, hands to his temples, thin lips spouting words of pure genius that John could pretend to understand. He would nod in agreement, perhaps asking the occasional question. If it was of any help, Holmes would look pleased with his Blogger, maybe even smiling a teeny bit before he was off again.

If it was of any large importance they could at any second, be whirling about. Sherlock slipping into his famous coat and scarf, hardly waiting for the good Doctor to shimmy into his own, before snatching his gun.

Off they would be, squeaking at them to be careful, to which they would pay no heed. There was the usual rush of adrenaline that John found he liked very much. It was reminiscent to the War. The man he walked beside was like the war. With his loud, booming voice, quick flashing hands. Sherlock carried with him excitement, attracting it and turning it into a thrilling game. Watson went along for the ride, a sounding board. One of the most willing ones in the world. This was war. The battle field of London. He wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

DI Lestrade was expecting them, saved the best crime scenes for them. He would shuffle nervously, hands in his pockets while his team would whisper about the freak and his pet, trying to focus on what Sherlock was mumbling. It seemed so inconceivable but he'd learned long ago to question the great detective was to invoke his wrath and get a very, uncomfortable long lasting glare from Watson.

Rather it was better for all involved that Lestrade just go with what was being said. Every now and then John wouldn't be able to stop himself from whispering something along the lines of 'brilliant,' 'amazing', 'incredible' to which the sleuth would gently chastise.

Before Lestrade would ever get a word in, they would be bounding off again on some insane epiphany, leaving him in the dust to try to explain to his crew, while Doctor John Watson fought the stupid urge to giggle, running behind the long legged detective.

If it was dangerous there would be a fight. No doubt that one of them would end up bruised, bloody and maybe with a near death experience to chalk up with the rest. And if it was particularly risky they would both be.

No matter because the thrills would be unlike anything John had ever felt before, and he would feel younger than he had ten years ago. Sherlock would enjoy himself to an immeasurable degree, mind expanding and growing.

There would be an unbroken string of windy streets, turning in circles, chasing criminals down alley ways, screaming until their throats were sore, muscles working, sweating and panting to fight the pain. It would be remarkable, a shear work of brilliance with everyone waiting for them afterwards as if it was a finish line.

Reporters, police, Mycroft. John Watson would groan because there would be questions he wouldn't be able to fully answer. Sherlock would groan because people are stupid.

They would lock gazes and would make excuses, would somehow wiggle out of their grip as they had done time and time again.

Together, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson would walk away, fighting down giggles, exchanging compliments and cheesy jokes as the sun came up, as they made their way back to 221B Baker Street.

Only in a few hours to awaken and do it all over again, never tiring of it, never wishing it was any different.


End file.
